God's Good Man, Marie Corelli [me reader .txt] 📗

the attitude of a University Extension lecturer near the sarcophagus in the middle of the chancel, with the Reverend Mr. Leveson and a couple of other men near him, while two more strangers were studying the groined roof with critical curiosity. As he approached, Sir Morton made a rapid sign to his companions and stepped down from the chancel.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Walden,” he said in a loud whisper, and with an elaborate affectation of great heartiness; “I have brought His Grace the Duke of Lumpton to see the church.”

Walden allowed his calm blue eyes to rest quietly on His Grace the Duke of Lumpton without much interest. His Grace was an undersized fat man, with a bald head and a red face, and on Walden’s being presented to him, merely nodded with a patronisingly casual air.

“Lord Mawdenham,”—continued Sir Morton, swelling visibly with just pride at his own good fortune in being able to introduce a Lord immediately after a Duke, and offering Walden, as it were, with an expressive wave of his hand, to a pale young gentleman, who seemed seriously troubled by an excess of pimples on his chin, and who plucked nervously at one of these undesirable facial addenda as his name was uttered. Walden acknowledged his presence with silent composure, as he did the wide smile and familiar nod of his brother minister, the Reverend ‘Putty,’ whose truly elephantine proportions were encased in a somewhat too closely fitting bicycle suit, and whose grand-pianoforte shaped legs and red perspiring face together, presented a most unclerical spectacle of the ‘Church at large.’

The two gentlemen who had been studying the groined roof, now brought their glances to bear on Walden, and one of them, a youngish man with a crop of thick red hair and a curiously thin, hungry face, spoke without waiting for Sir Morton’s cue.

“Mr. Walden? Ye-es!—I felt sure it must be Mr. Walden! Let me congratulate you, sir, on your exquisite devotional work here! The church is beau-ti-ful—beau-ti-ful! A sonnet in stone! A sculptured prayer! Ye-es! It is so! Permit me to press your hand!”

John smiled involuntarily. There was a quaint affectation about the speaker that was quite irresistibly entertaining.

“Mr. Julian Adderley is a poet,” said Sir Morton, whispering this in a jocose stage aside; “Everything is ‘beautiful’ to him!”

Mr. Julian Adderley smiled faintly, and fixed a pair of rather fine grey eyes on Walden with a mute appeal, as one who should say with Hamlet ‘These tedious old fools!’ Meanwhile Sir Morton Pippitt had secured the last member of his party affectionately by the arm, and continuing his stage whisper said:

“Permit me, Mr. Walden! This is one of our greatest London literary lights! He will particularly appreciate anything you may he good enough to tell him respecting your work of restoration here—Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs!”

Mr. Marius Longford, of the Savile and Savage clubs, bent his head with an air of dignified tolerance. He was an angular personage, with a narrow head, and a face cleanly shaven, except at the sides where two small pussy-cat whiskers fringed his sharply defined jaws. He had a long thin mouth, and long thin slits for his eyes to peep through,—they would have been eyelids with other people, but with him they were merely slits. He was a particularly neat man in appearance—his clothes were well brushed, his linen spotless, his iron-grey hair sleek, and his whole appearance that of a man well satisfied with his own exterior personality. Walden glanced at this great London literary light as indifferently as he would have glanced at an incandescent lamp in the street, or other mechanical luminary. He had not as yet spoken a word. Sir Morton had done all the talking; but the power of silence always overcomes in the end, and John’s absolute non-committal of himself to any speech, had at last the effect he desired—namely that of making Sir Morton appear a mere garrulous old interloper, and his ‘distinguished’ friends somewhat of the cheap tripper persuasion. The warm May sun poured through the little shrine of prayer, casting flickers of gold and silver on the ‘Saint at Rest’ before the altar, and showering azure and rose patterns through the ancient stained glass which filled the side lancet windows. The stillness became for the moment intense and almost oppressive,—Sir Morton Pippitt fidgeted uneasily, pulled at his high starched collar and became red in the face,—the Reverend ‘Putty’ forgot himself so far as to pinch one of his own legs and hum a little tune, while the rest of the party waited for the individual whom their host had so frequently called ‘the damned parson’ to speak. The tension was relieved by the sudden quiet entrance of a young woman carrying a roll of music. Seeing the group of persons in the chancel, she paused in evident uncertainty. Walden glanced at her, and his composed face all at once lighted up with that kindly smile which in such moments made him more than ordinarily handsome.

“Come along, Miss Eden,” he said in a low clear tone; “You are quite at liberty to practise as usual. Sir Morton Pippitt and his friends will not disturb you.”

Miss Eden smiled sedately and bent her head, passing by the visitors with an easy demeanour and assured step, and made her way to where the organ, small, but sweet and powerful, occupied a corner near the chancel. While she busied herself in opening the instrument and arranging her musics Walden took advantage of the diversion created by her entrance to address himself to the knight Pippitt.

“If I can be of service to your friends in explaining anything about the church they may wish, to know, pray command me, Sir Morton,” he said. “But I presume that you and Mr, Leveson”—here he glanced at the portly ‘Putty’ with a slight smile—“have pointed out all that is necessary.”

“On the contrary!” said Mr. Marius Longford ‘of the Savile and Savage,’ with a smoothly tolerant air; “We are really quite in the dark! Do we understand, for example, that the restoration of this church is entirely due to your generosity, or to assistance from public funds and subscriptions?”

“The restoration is due, not to my ‘generosity,’” replied Walden, “but merely to my sense of what is fitting for Divine service. I have had no assistance from any fund or from any individual, because I have not sought it.”

There was a pause, during which Mr. Longford fixed a pair of gold- rimmed glasses on his nose and gazed quizzically through them at Sir Morton Pippitt, whose countenance had grown uncomfortably purple in hue either with exterior heat or inward vexation.

“I thought. Sir Morton,” he began slowly, when Mr. Leveson adroitly interrupted him by the query:

“Now what period would you fix, Mr. Longford, for this sarcophagus? I am myself inclined to think it of the fourteenth century.”

A soft low strain of music here crept through, the church,—the village schoolmistress was beginning her practice. She had a delicate touch, and the sounds her fingers pressed from the organ- keys were full, and solemn and sweet. His Grace the Duke of Lumpton coughed loudly; he hated music, and always made some animal noise of his own to drown it.

“What matters the period!” murmured Julian Adderley, running his thin hand through his thick hair. “Is it not sufficient to see it here among us, with us, OF us?”

“God bless my soul! I hope it is not OF us!” spluttered Sir Morton with a kind of fat chuckle which seemed to emanate from his stiff collar rather than from his throat; “‘Ashes to ashes’ of course; we are all aware of that—but not just yet!—not just yet!”

“I am unable to fix the period satisfactorily to my own mind,” said Walden, quietly ignoring both Sir Morton and his observations on the Beyond; “though I have gone through considerable research with respect to the matter. So I do not volunteer any opinion. There is, however, no doubt that at one time the body contained in that coffer must have been of the nature termed by the old Church ‘miraculous.’ That is to say, it must have been supposed to be efficacious in times of plague or famine, for there are several portions of the alabaster which have evidently been worn away by the frequent pressure or touch of hands on the surface. Probably in days when this neighbourhood was visited by infection, drought, floods or other troubles, the priests raised the coffin by the system of leverage which we discovered when excavating (and which is still in working order) and allowed the people to pass by and lay their hands upon it with a special prayer to be relieved of their immediate sickness or sorrow. There were many such ‘miraculous’ shrines in the early part of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Longford; “I imagine you may be right, Mr. Walden; it is evidently a relic of the very earliest phases of the Christian myth.”

As he spoke the last words Walden looked straightly at him. A fine smile hovered on his lips.

“It is as you say,” he rejoined calmly—“It is a visible token of the time when men believed in an Unseen Force more potent than themselves.”

The Duke of Lumpton coughed noisily again, and his friend, Lord Mawdenham, who up to the present had occupied the time in staring vaguely about him and anxiously feeling his pimples, said hurriedly:

“Oh, look here, Sir Morton—er—I say,—er—hadn’t we better be going? There’s Lady Elizabeth Messing coming to lunch and you know she can’t bear to be kept waiting-never do, you know, not to be there to see her when she arrives—he-he-he! We should never get over it in London or out of London—‘pon my life!—I do assure you!”

Sir Morton’s chest swelled;—his starched collar crackled round his expanding throat, and his voice became richly resonant as under the influential suggestion of another ‘titled’ personage, he replied:

“Indeed, you are right, my dear Lord Mawdenham! To keep Lady Elizabeth waiting would be an unpardonable offence against all the proprieties! Hum—ha—er—yes!—against all the proprieties! Mr. Walden, we must go! Lady Elizabeth Messing is coming to lunch with us at Badsworth. You have no doubt heard of her—eldest daughter of the Earl of Charrington!—yes, we must really be going! I think I may say, may I not, your Grace?”—here he bent towards the ducal Lumpton—“that we are all highly pleased with the way in which Mr. Waldon has effected the restoration of the church?”

“Oh, I don’t know anything at all about it!” replied His Grace, with the air of a sporting groom; “I’ve no taste at all in churches, and I’m not taking any on old coffins! It’s a nice little chapel—just enough for a small village I should say. After all, don’t-cher-know, you only want very little accommodation for a couple of hundred yokels; and whether it’s old or new architecture doesn’t matter to ‘em a brass farthing!”

These observations were made with a rambling air of vague self- assertiveness which the speaker evidently fancied would pass for wit and wisdom. Walden said nothing. His brow was placid, and his countenance altogether peaceful. He was listening to the solemnly sweet flow of a Bach prelude which Miss Eden was skilfully unravelling on the organ, the notes rising and falling, and anon soaring up again like prayerful words striving to carry themselves to heaven.

“I think,” said Mr. Marius Longford weightily, “that whatever fault the building may have from a strictly accurate point of view,—which is a matter I am not prepared to go into without considerable time given for due study and consideration,—it is certainly the most attractive edifice